regiment. That it was all right. I’d heard that one of the raids had taken out a windmill and some houses, but he told me that that was on the Blackwater. Or maybe the Crouch. I don’t remember.”
“When was this?”
“Early in 1915, I think. He’d seen some fighting, and I was in the relief column. He told me he’d borrowed my motorcar and driven out to Essex.”
“Did he stay at the house? Or just spend a few hours there?”
“He built a fire in my mother’s sitting room, he said. It was damned cold, the house had been shut up for months. He’d brought tea in a Thermos and a packet of sandwiches, and he ate them by the fire rather than on the terrace as he’d planned. I asked if the chimneys were all right-I didn’t relish the idea of the house burning down. But he’d checked them first, he said, and made certain the fire was out before leaving.”
“When next did you see or hear from him?”
“Someone told me he’d been wounded. Late May? It earned him a ticket home, I expect. He wrote once from hospital. He’d heard that we were expecting a child, my wife and I. They’d done surgery on his knee and he was hoping to be released for duty by late August. He told me he might drive down to Essex again, if he could manage it.” Russell lay still, closing his eyes. “I never heard from him again as far as I recall. But letters get lost.”
“Do you know if he survived the war?”
“You must ask Cynthia that. She kept track of both of us and Harold Finley as well. Why the interest in Justin? You don’t think he shot me, do you?” He had opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on Rutledge. “Why on earth should he do that?”
It was clear that he’d forgot what Rutledge had told him about Willet’s confession.
“I’m still investigating Willet’s death. Were you in England during that summer of 1915?”
“I was in France. No, that’s not true. I was sent home on compassionate leave when my wife died.”
“Did you go down to River’s Edge? Or look up Fowler in hospital?”
“I don’t think so. It was-I don’t remember much about that time.” He grimaced. “I was ridden by guilt. I hadn’t loved her. She died because of me. I didn’t think I’d made her happy.” He turned his head aside. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
Rutledge was on the point of saying something more when Morrison came back.
“There you are,” he said, stepping in. “Is he asleep?”
Rutledge answered, “Yes, I think so. The nurse warned me not to disturb his rest. We should leave.”
He rose and got Morrison out of the room. Walking to the motorcar, Morrison asked, “Could you talk to him? Did he tell you anything else?”
“Only that he doesn’t know what happened to Fowler. It may be that he will never be able to remember. If he’s guilty of murdering him, Russell could well go free.”
Morrison digested that, then said, “You don’t intend to take him into custody?”
“Suspicion isn’t truth. I need facts.”
Morrison cranked the motorcar for Rutledge and then got in. “How, I wonder, did Ben learn about Fowler’s death and Russell’s role in it?”
“I don’t know. But the fact that he did tells me that whatever happened, happened in River’s Edge. Or somewhere along the Hawking. Not in London or Dover or Portsmouth. I told you before I don’t believe in coincidence. And it would have been difficult to kill someone and get rid of the body where hundreds of men are collecting and boarding their transports. But the River Hawking is rather isolated. If it swallowed up Mrs. Russell, it could swallow Fowler just as easily.”
“Then why wasn’t Willet killed in Essex as well?”
“I haven’t worked that out yet. Perhaps someone didn’t want him to reach Essex.”
“We don’t know he was intending to go there.”
“I’ve discovered that he was.”
That silenced Morrison. After a time, he said, “I’m tired. I’ll shut my eyes for a bit, if you don’t mind.” He leaned his head against the window strut.
Rutledge was grateful for the chance to think. With his eyes on the road, he let his mind review everything he knew.
Hamish said, “There’s no answer.”
“Exactly. And there’s only one reason I can think of to explain that. Somewhere is a piece of the puzzle we haven’t found. Not yet. And I’m not sure where to look.”
“Aye. Ye must start at the beginning.”
By the time he’d passed the gates of River’s Edge and made the turning to the Rectory, Morrison was awake and complaining of being stiff.
He said, preparing to get out of the motorcar, “I never thought he would live.”
“Nor did I. But if he had died, the inquiry on Justin Fowler would have to be closed. Without Willet and without Russell, there is no case.”
Morrison shook his head. “I watched you question a man who was in great pain. How do you live with the fact that the person you take into custody will be tried and judged and very likely hanged? Do you never feel merciful?”
“It’s not a question of mercy. I don’t judge people. I leave that to the courts. It’s my task to collect the facts that will help them arrive at the truth.”
“That’s very self-righteous, don’t you think?”
And then he was gone, shutting the Rectory door behind him.
Rutledge continued into Furnham, realized he’d eaten nothing since breakfast, and stopped by the tea shop- cum-bakery. But it was already closed, and he went on to the inn.
The clerk told him that he hadn’t asked for dinner, and so there was none to be had. But when Rutledge offered to pay him well for a meal, he agreed to prepare something. When the tray was brought to his room, Rutledge found under the cloth covering several sandwiches, a dish of fruit, and a square of cheese with rather stale biscuits.
He ate his meal sitting by the window, where the cool evening air made him drowsy. Setting the empty dishes outside his door, he went to bed.
But the drowsiness seemed to evaporate as soon as he blew out the lamp and got into bed.
Instead, his mind went over and over what he knew about the three murders and the attack on Russell. And he didn’t like what he was beginning to conclude.
Cynthia Farraday had wanted River’s Edge, but not its owner. It would have been easy for her to murder the unsuspecting Mrs. Russell. But despite his protestation of his love, Wyatt Russell married someone else for the sake of an heir. If that was her motive, it didn’t make sense for her to kill Fowler or Ben Willet.
Wyatt Russell had the best motive-jealousy. He could have killed the men he perceived to be his rivals. But why kill his own mother?
Jessup, for reasons of his own, could have killed Mrs. Russell, her son, and his own nephew. But why murder Fowler?
And if the person who killed Fowler’s parents intended to return one day and murder the son as well, why had it been necessary to kill the Russells and Ben Willet?
Was it possible that there were two people at work here?
He was close to the answer when sleep overtook him.
And then he was back in France, the sound of the guns loud in his ears, the screams of the wounded and the dying all around him while the machine gunners whittled away the numbers coming toward them until only Rutledge was left on his feet, and struggling through the mud toward the gunners, his revolver in his hand and determination giving him the strength to keep going despite the bullets plowing into his body. But when he reached the nest, there was only one gunner, nothing but bones grinning at him from behind the gun sight. And Hamish’s voice at his ear was shouting to him, trying to make him understand that he too was dead.
“Fall down and let it be over,” the Scots voice cried. “For God’s sake, let it be over!”
Rutledge fought against it, clinging to life, struggling against the darkness that was overwhelming him, reaching out for a handhold and unable to find it. For he could see that the River Somme was filled with blood, and he would drown in it, in spite of all he could do.
With a shock he came wide awake, wrestling the bedclothes, crying out in the darkness.
